


Tricolore

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2078937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is in Paris for Francis' birthday. Francis is pleased about that.<br/>Arthur will not wear red, white and blue, the beautiful colours of Francis' flag, on Francis' birthday, for Francis. Francis is less pleased about that. </p><p>Hopeless fluff written for Bastille Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tricolore

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr way back in July, but I only recently recalled I could actually _post_ fic here rather than just read it.

It is, Francis reminds himself, enough of a miracle that Francis has somehow (and he will say _somehow_ as the extended explanation involves much careful wheedling over the course of two months, plus a great deal of wining, dining and some very, _very_ good sex that would take hours to properly elaborate on) convinced Arthur to be in France – in _Paris –_ on Bastille Day. And that is _knowingly_ in Paris, not just having ‘wandered there by accident,’ _staying_ in Paris for a few days, rather than fleeing back to his little island home long before the festivities are anywhere near over, _deliberately_ making his presence known to the host Nation (although the question of how Arthur could _not_ make his presence known when he’s staying in Francis’ flat, in Francis’ bed, would be an interesting thing to ponder when they’re both philosophical and drunk), rather than Arthur’s usual _I know you know that I am here, but we’re going to pretend we never saw each other and I won’t hit you over the head with one of the bottles of wine you just got given for your birthday(. It would be a waste of wine)._

That – all of _that –_ is enough of a miracle (for only miracles can need so many words to describe, be so specific), and so, Francis reminds himself, he should be grateful, immensely grateful, and just politely bear with the fact his glowering lover will _not_ wear the beautiful colours of Francis’ _Tricolore,_ Francis’ beautiful red, white and blue.

Will. Not.

“But your flag has the same colours!” Francis protests, hands on his hips and willing to go up against the impossible at the breakfast table for _impossible is not French._ (It is English. Sitting in a white t-shirt and dark red shorts at the table and darkly scowling at Francis over his morning cup of tea.)

“ _One,_ ” says Arthur, holding up one finger to demonstrate as though Francis can no longer count to ten, “over _half the world_ has flags in goddamn red, white and blue. And _two,_ ” a second finger, and Francis supposes himself lucky Arthur is not yet cross enough to show him the back of his hand with the two-fingered salute, “the blue _you_ are talking about is in my _family’s_ flag. _My_ flag is a very sensible red on white – which I am already wearing, thank you very much and _sod off._ ”

So Arthur does not wear any blue.

They go out into the streets, into the day’s celebrations together. Crowds are infectious, doubly so for Nations, _triply_ so for those Nations they belong to, and Francis is not an exception, swept along by the excitement and the affections of his people.

Those that see him and _know_ him wish him the happiest of days, and by the time Francis has emerged into one large body of people and out of another he has procured a great deal of little French flags for his own, five small white lilies (somewhat bruised for their journey but beautiful all the same), and a truly immense slice of cake which is _delicious._ So delicious Francis goes to immediately gloat about the wonders of French baking to his pouting guest (for old time’s sake and the excuse to stuff some of it in Arthur’s mouth when Arthur opens said mouth – as he always does – to argue. Francis cannot in all good vanity eat all the cake alone; his jeans that day are too tight for overeating, a sacrifice he made for the wonder they make of his arse) – only to realise Arthur is not beside him.

Arthur is not anywhere _near_ Francis, in fact, and Francis, after a momentary flash of dismay upon realising he has lost his guest in the crowds, decides it is just simply a sign from God on his birthday, bids a solemn _au revoir_ to his waistline, and eats the cake whole. (He shall simply have to gloat to Arthur about missed opportunities later, bring more cake home to lick the icing from Arthur’s fingers, mouth.)

It takes more time to find Arthur than to lose him, for now Francis has to move _against_ the flow of the crowds drawn along by the shiny lure of a parade, keeping an eye out in the sea of people for a blond man in white and red. He can still feel Arthur _somewhere_ nearby, that _throb_ that is the Nation-presence of England in France’s lands, in France’s heart, but Paris is alive with people and their swelling emotions, swirling Francis’ sense of self around and around under the bright summer sun and stealing his precision away.

Tucking a flower in his hair, Francis retraces his steps as best he can, backtracks, passing some of the little flags he’d been given to people who need them more than him – a small boy crying to his father about having dropped his own, a lady who looks like she needs reason to smile, a pair of petite giggling lovers piggy-backing each other down the pavement so at least one of them can see over the heads of the taller people around them to see where they are going. There is music playing, people talking, shifting, moving. There are tourists everywhere, threading in and out and roundabout Francis’ own people.

There is Arthur, eventually, crouching down in the shade of a parasol and having a very awkward-looking conversation with two little French girls in front of their amused mother, both girls looking terribly concerned, one patting Arthur’s shoulder, and the other busy clipping back half of Arthur’s fringe with hairclips shaped like glittery blue butterflies. They are worried he is _lost,_ and tell him he is very brave for not crying and is very sensible for finding a responsible grown-up like their mama, but if he cannot find his friend, perhaps he should find a nice policeman? The crowds are very scary though, so he can sit with them until a policeman or his friend comes by, and until then they have water and chocolate and they can brush his hair.

“A lost cause, I am afraid,” Francis says in French, touching one hand lightly to Arthur’s shoulder as Arthur is trying to stumble out a response in the tongue he swears he hates to two adorable children (pink, rose pink, for Arthur is weak to kindness and cute things), and smiling down at his guest’s little saviours. “But you have made him much prettier with your work already, _mademoiselles;_ I thank you for looking after him so well _._ ”

Although they are sad to lose their new friend and model, the girls are delighted to see Francis – Arthur will not have to find a policeman after all now, and Francis gives them each a flag and one of his lilies for their kindness and Arthur’s new hairclips, a third flower for their mother.

The crowds are still so happy, bright, and Francis finds his lips twitching upwards inexorably as he and Arthur walk away from the little family under the parasol, bumping elbows, fingertips with Arthur as Arthur goes redder and redder (and not all of it, for a change, sunburn), hissing: “Not one _word._ ”

“I said nothing,” says Francis, but his grin hikes itself higher.

“I can hear you _thinking. Loudly.”_

“You would control the freedom of my thoughts,” Francis challenges, turns about so he can step in front of Arthur and be pushed close by the people around them, sun-warmth and skin-warmth and Arthur’s red cheeks. Still smiling, he reaches to lightly brush Arthur’s hair, touch the blue, blue butterflies glittering so prettily just above Arthur’s ear, “after you finally got some freedom of your own?”

“Francis, don’t make me kick you on your birthday.”

Francis flings prudence to the wind and rides the wave of chance. “You are _adorable,_ ” he says, and hands Arthur his last lily before Arthur can yell at him, leaning in quick over the white waxy petals between them so he can steal a quick soft kiss in the seconds where Arthur is caught between indignation, surprise and thanks, his lips still sweet with smiling and cake.

Sometimes if you don’t push your luck with miracles, they come along anyway.

They miss the parade and Arthur kicks him later, but when night falls there are butterfly hairclips and two lilies sitting in a vase above them by Francis’ occupied bed. The petals are gilded by the same moonlight draped like a cotton sheet over Arthur and Francis, the two sleeping entwined in the breeze from the open window, and, much like the lilies they are both a little bruised and a great deal loved, grey-silver, and soft, and asleep.


End file.
